


Beginnings

by whimsicaltwine



Series: Regrowth au [1]
Category: Sanders Sides (Web Series)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Alternate Universe - Post-Apocalypse, Death, Gen, Gun Violence, Sympathetic Dark Creativity | Remus "The Duke" Sanders, Sympathetic Deceit Sanders
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-11-09
Updated: 2019-12-19
Packaged: 2020-10-19 07:43:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 12,399
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20653631
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whimsicaltwine/pseuds/whimsicaltwine
Summary: This is not a story about the end of the world.The end of the world, so to speak, is a dramatic affair; it’s painted in the halls of history with flowing brushstrokes and dashing colors, a tapestry of  pride, ignorance, complacency, and denial, all soaked in bitter hindsight.  “This was humanity,” it says.  “They were foolish.”xxxxxxThousands of years after the fall of humanity, a boy born on mars, a failed revolutionary, and a coward end up living with a flighty farmboy and his family.  This is how they get there.





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> on chapters other than the prologue, more specific content warnings are in the notes at the end. Make sure you read them if you want to or read the chapter blind if you're sure you don't need to.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No trigger warnings for this one, but in the future, I'll always put them in the notes at the end, so if you want/need to look at them, you can, but if you're sure you don't need to you can read it blind and not get any hints about what happens.

This is not a story about the end of the world.

The end of the world, so to speak, is a dramatic affair; it’s painted in the halls of history with flowing brushstrokes and dashing colors, a tapestry of pride, ignorance, complacency, and denial, all soaked in bitter hindsight. “This was humanity,” it says. “They were foolish.”

This timeline stretches across the hall, a neat catalog of everything that went wrong; from the first factories that pumped soot and filth into the air to the complacency that blinded us at the turning point to the downwards spiral, the crop failures and deadly epidemics brought about by rising temperatures, it’s all laid out, plain to see. The end of the world is a tragic, but predictable.

But this is not a story about the end of the world.

This is not a story about the brave visionaries that organized the _ Perseverance _ mission. This is not about the rich people who bought their way into Haven. This story is not about the fall of humanity, but the straggling remains of life that were left afterwards, the ones waging an uphill battle out of the rubble. A mass extinction may seem like the end of the world, at first, but just wait. Life is resilient. 

Time heals all wounds, does it not?


	2. Virgil

Sheltered by trees, the creek is cool in the unrelenting heat, free to feel the breeze but shaded by a network of leaves that cast shadows on the ground in patchwork patterns, transforming the soft earth into a dappled blanket to sit on. The water is slow-moving here. It idles around the bend in the path it’s cut out from the earth, caressing the little cliff, held up by binding roots and rocks, that he sits on, his legs pulled up to his chest in a loose little hug. Branches rustle in the wind.

Tilting his head back to let little spots of sunlight fall on his face, Virgil sighs, the pile of rocks he’d gathered earlier gone, left to sit beneath the surface of the water, where little bugs skate around and tiny black minnows dart from place to place. At the rustling of plants, though, he snaps back into the moment, whipping around to check behind him. He glares, but Emilie only ducks under a branch and steps forward to sit besides him, neatly crossing his legs and settling his hands in his lap as Petal trots to catch up, her unruly red fur warm from the sun where Virgil sets his hand on her head to scratch her ears as she tries to lick his face.

“What is is, Emile,” he mumbles, tugging his knees up closer to his chest.

With strawberry blond hair, tan clothing, and freckles that fall all across his face and shoulders, his cousin has always looked at home out in the field, backed by grass that’s light green in the summer, then pale like straw come fall, a soft creature that can settle down and look just like he’s always been there. He’s light and gentle where Virgil is heavy and dark, all weighed down by worries and what-ifs that make him far more at home in the shelter of the trees by the creek. “How’re you holding up?” he asks. Virgil tears a little plant out of the ground.

He’s not stupid; he knows what Emile is trying to do. Subtle and understanding as he may be, Virgil’s had his whole life to learn the way he’ll pry for information without doing anything at all, sitting besides you until you elect to fill the silence, letting him know what’s bothering you. This, right after everything, isn’t even subtle. Emile may be patient, but Virgil is stubborn, and so he tears up another handful of greenery and throws it into the creek, where it ever so slowly starts to make its way downstream.

“I miss them too, Virgil.”

That’s it. Before he’s even fully stood up, Virgil is bolting away from the creek and out into the endless empty fields that cover everything this far away from the house, grass whipping against his legs as he runs over the dry ground, kicking up dust in his wake. A tiny thing pushing his way through the vast landscape, he lets his legs carry him away, away, away, until he finds himself alone with only the whispers of the grass swaying in the wind to accompany him, the air tugging at his clothes, his hair. Step by step, he runs out of momentum, his legs lagging until he’s slowed to a stop. Virgil stands there, still among the windswept world. His shoulders slump.

When he was little, short enough to be hidden by the grass, he’d play a game with his mother. She would close her eyes and call out for him, the sound bright like her smile, and Virgil would respond with a call of his own, perhaps a meow in imitation of Walnut, or a chirp of his own name. He has a memory of her with her arms stretched out in front of her, a floppy hat shading her face as she blindly searches for him, the breeze playing with her light, wispy brown hair as he giggles, looking up at her from the grass. 

Now, though, he’s taller; the grass only comes up to his waist, leaving him alone, exposed. The wind roars in his ears. As he draws out of the memory and comes back to the present, the anger and hurt floods out of him all at once, leaving behind everything but the field around him. He turns, scanning the skyline, restless, as the wind pulls and tugs at him and the sun is hot on his face and there is nothing, nothing but the rippling grass and the blue, blue sky and the wind and the heat. It all looks the same.

Breathing heavy from the running, from the nagging fear that’s starting to encroach on the hurt that’s driven him out here, Virgil clenches his hands into fists. It’s a vast, open, empty sky, and a vast, open, empty landscape, and Virgil is so, so small, standing there in the middle of the field, open to attack from every side. A hawk circles above him. 

Every part of his body is urging him to hide, to tuck himself away in some tight little space where nothing can get to him or even see him, but out here the best he can manage is to sink down onto the ground and tuck his body down into the grass just like that little boy that wandered around carelessly, confident he was safe with his mother there to protect him, to hold him when he was scared, to be there when he started to spiral into a neverending loop of what if, what if, what if. He’s always sought out his parents when it gets too bad. Mom was good at countering his anxieties with neat logic, and dad would go with him to check that the door was locked, or that the chickens weren’t escaping.

But they’re gone. Now, Virgil can do nothing but curl up into the grass to hide and watch hot tears fall onto the ground below him.

xxxxxx

He doesn’t know how long he spends there, but it’s long enough for the tears to stop, leaving an empty, wrung-out feeling in their wake. The sun is hot on his back, and he’s thirsty, but as he sits there, cramped from being curled up like this for so long, he can’t quite bring himself to get up. Getting up means facing Emile’s patient pity.

Instead, Virgil closes his eyes, lays down, and lets the static of the shifting grass wash over him, burying him in the nothing until he can almost forget he exists, tucked down in the grass, hiding from the world that moves on without him. 

“Wha— ok, girl.”

So much for peace. 

“Don’t tell me you’re just planning on laying out here like a dead gopher,” Remy says. With an axe confidently but lazily propped against his shoulder and all manner of different tools tucked into the criss-crossing laces of his durable clothes, he would be intimidating, were he not, well, Remy. “Come on, up, up!” After kicking him lightly for several long, annoying minutes, he finally gives up and calls for backup, turning to shout, “Hey, Dee, you’re brother’s too busy moping to get up and move!”

Virgil sighs. While Remy would eventually move on, Dee won’t hesitate to pick him up and carry him back to the house, and so he peels himself up off the ground until he can look over the tips of the blades of grass to see Dee, a lone figure wading through the field with the prairie dogs unfortunate enough to get caught in their traps that day. Remy shifts the bundle of firewood he’s carrying to offer Virgil a hand to pull himself up.

While Remy never stops talking, Dee never speaks when it’s unnecessary. The scars on his face shaded by his rigid hat, he makes his way towards them with the practiced silence of a hunter, his pale cloak rippling wildly around his shoulders in the harsh wind like a tied-down animal trying to escape. He levels a bored but curious look at Virgil, raising an eyebrow. “What are you doing out here?”

Rather than answering, Virgil reaches over to snatch Remy’s water skin, leaving his brother to roll his eyes and sigh, examining his nails. “You know,” he starts, “I can’t help but be shocked at the sheer level of stupidity you’ve achieved. Laying out in the field with no water, really, Virgil.” His words may be the usual mocking, and he may have an uncanny ability to hide his true feelings about just about anything, but Virgil, who’s spent most of his life worrying about people, hears the words hidden behind it: I’m not going to let another one of my family members die like that.

They stare at each other for a moment, silent, before Dee speaks up. “Remy, go take these back to the house. I’ll carry the firewood in later.” For once, Remy is quiet, swiftly trading with Dee before setting out for the creek at a jog. Virgil scoffs.

“Look at him. Idiot’s so eager to see his boyfriend he can’t even walk like a normal person.”

Nodding, Dee adds, “Bringing someone dead animals, the height of romance.” Snorting, Virgil starts off towards the house at a more reasonable pace, making his way through the waving grass with his brother following behind him, silent. It’s why he likes Dee; while Emile is always so insistent on talking about things, he, like Virgil, prefers to work through things by himself, helped along by their old friends denial and isolation.

For the moment, they’re as close to okay as they’re going to get.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: death of parents - it's not shown but it happened recently
> 
> So I did minimal research, but for the record, humans and pretty much all other life mentioned here would almost definitely not survive earth's sixth mass extinction. Where do you think the others are? How are they going to end up here with Virgil? I'd love to see your speculation.


	3. Patton

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again, warnings are at the end. This is the chapter is a lot heavier than the last one, so tread carefully folks

Patton’s never understood the man that’s stationed here. With its dim, flickering lighting, long lines of people snaking around like the cracks in the stone walls, and the stifling weight of the monotony that cloaks the whole place in a neverending stillness, the room is already gloomy enough without the unimpressed look he uses to greet everyone who shuffles up to his counter. Maybe he’d been more lively as a teenager, and smiled at people as he wished them a good day. Maybe he’d slowly become a part of the room, all the color leeching from him until he was just as dull and gray as the stone walls.

Regardless of how he ended up this way, he’s about as expressive as the chair he sits on, meaning Patton doesn’t know what to do with himself around him. “Last name and ration card,” the man drones.

“Devoue,” he answers, handing over his family’s card. Behind him, a woman in a faded green t-shirt taps her foot impatiently. 

When the card gets handed back, it’s accompanied by a square meal tin exactly like the one Patton had picked up this morning, last night, and every time before that; its dull, scratched surface is cool against his hands. He steps out of the line.

The hallway, as always, is teeming with people who shoulder past each other, duck out of the way, or squeeze themselves up against the wall to talk. Gathering the food to this chest so he doesn’t drop it, Patton sets out for home, the buzzing noise of the old lights a backdrop to the stream of chatter that his footsteps get lost in. He knows the way home like he knows his favorite stories — the uneven spot on the floor, the pipes that run along the ceiling, the electrical cables safe in their metal tubes, the thick stream of people that crowd the way back — it’s all exactly like it’s always been. It’s home, and family, and safety. It’s everything Patton has ever wanted.

Yes, sometimes the rough walls seem to press in, squeezing his chest and compressing his lungs until it’s hard to breathe and he can’t help but think of the miles of heavy rock above him, and yes, the cold rooms all blend together after awhile, but it’s home. It’s family. Most of all, it’s safety, because there’s nowhere else to go.

While he’s lost in thought, his feet carry him to the right doorway. There’s no curtain to sweep aside, anymore — almost all of them have long since been used for clothing or blankets, leaving the entrances to each home exposed, empty. There’s a slight step down, and as soon as Patton enters the room, his mother is there to greet him.

“How was your day?” She asks, wrapping her arms around him in that way that never fails to make him feel at home. She smells like oil and the sharp tang of metal, and he buries his face in her shoulder to lose himself in the familiar scent.

“Great! We got a lot of old kids’ things, today, after we asked for people to bring them. We’re running out of thread again, so Alice is going to have to see if she can find something that’s knit, so it’ll unravel.” His mother shakes her head, her many long braids swathing against her back.

“I’m telling you, Haven is running out of everything more and more often. You know who never runs short on anything?”

Having heard this a thousand times before, Patton finishes, “The people in charge of this place.” As he gets older, it gets easier to believe. Ten-year-old Patton, with skinned knees, fuzzy hair, and grabby little hands that hugged anyone and anything he could get close enough to couldn’t quite comprehend someone abusing their power to take things from others, but he’s learned a lot since then. Today, he’s reduced to looking for all the little happy things that so often get obscured by the weight of everything that’s wrong with the world. He’s gotten quite good at finding them, too.

Today’s bit of joy, however, stands out more than usual, leaving Patton bouncing on his toes as he waits to reveal it. Earlier, while sorting through a pile of donations, Patton had stumbled upon something wonderful.

He’d just folded and put away a worn-out blanket that could be repurposed into a shirt or two, but when absent-mindedly reaching into his pile for the next things to sort, he found himself holding the most brightly colored piece of fabric he’d ever seen, besides his blanket. The shirt was vibrant, cheery light blue, the kind he imagined when books talked about the sky, and it seemed even brighter against his warm, dark skin when he draped it over his arm. Giggling, he turned it over in his hands to examine it, feeling the ever-so-slightly coarse grain to the fabric, smoothing down the floppy collar, running his fingers over the buttons, only one of which was missing. Delighted, he’d set is aside on its own, it’s color gracing the dull table top with just a bit more personality. It couldn’t hurt to put the other things away first. He’d just keep it out to look at.

Now, he taps his fingers against his bag, where it made its way after he finished working. It’s not as if he took it for himself. That would be wrong. No, it’s going to be a gift.

As they talk over their meal, Patton busies himself with imagining the look on his mother’s face when he gives it to her.

xxxxxxxx

The days continue on, and Patton marches through them complacently — wake up, get food, work, get food, go home, sleep, wake up, get food — it’s automatic, at this point, and Patton has to fight to keep the monotony from bleaching out all his color.

A month from her birthday, Patton’s mother starts to speak of revolution.

The light in their room had gone out the day before, leaving them to eat by the wandering light that makes its way in from the hallway. Patton is filling the dim room with yet another wishful tangent about what it might be like to pet a dog when she suddenly leans in and, in a low voice, says, “You know, there are so many of us down here, Patton, and yet just a few dozen people have control over everything.” Patton, used to this, pauses, but lets his mind continue to wander.

“If we worked together,” she says then, quieter, leaning in over the table and staring at Patton with a grim intensity he’s never seen from her before, “there’d be nothing they could do to stop us.”

Patton chokes, coughing into his cup of water as he slips in his chair, startled by the idea of such a thing. “Mom,” he says, incredulous and accusatory. Water has splashed on his shirt, the thin fabric clinging to his skin like the idea clings to his mind, powerful from its sheer shock value. It’s as if someone has frozen time. Patton, vibrant from how deeply he feels, splutters, the screech of his chair being pushed back hanging in the air as the cold stone walls around them sit steady, unmoved by his mother’s intense gaze and the weight of her words. Patton’s mind, though, darts on ahead, oblivious to the spell of stillness that has struck them, and the conclusion that he comes to hits him with nearly as much force as the words that prompted it. She’s right. She’s very right.

There are nearly three thousand people living in Haven, all descendants of the original group of thirteen hundred that traded the sunlight on the surface for the promise of survival down below, where rising temperatures and the resulting food shortages wouldn’t be a problem. There are ten managers and one director in charge of keeping it all running.

“Mom,” he says again, and this time it’s with the incredulous laughter of delight that has just started to sink in. She grins as he shakes his head in disbelief.

“Someone talked to me the other night, right before I got home. She says it’s already being organized, even as we speak, and that they already have two hundred people after just a month of recruiting. Of course, we have to be careful to only ask the people who’ll agree, but Patton, things are going to change,” she says, reaching over the table to take his hands in hers. Her fingers, calloused from years of working on Haven’s heart, the machinery that keeps it all running, are rough against Patton’s soft hands, which have only ever known fabric, thread, and the sharp prick of a needle when he’s not careful, but they’re twice as warm and alive than anything in the maze of hallways they call home. “June seventh,” she promises, squeezing his hands once to seal it. “It’s going to be the best birthday present.”

xxxxxx

The days rush by with new energy after that. In the daytime, Patton takes to speaking like his mother, slipping in little wishes for change in among the blur of clothes to sort, wash, fold, and repair. Jay pays them no attention, letting them get lost in that place where all mundane things that aren’t worth remembering go, but others, like Lila, let the seeds of revolution settle in their minds, where Patton waters and weeds them with small complaints and whimsical conjectures. People have always come easy to him, and so he can tell when the ideas start to take root. When they start speaking out on their own, he’ll invite them to dinner. Having company tends to chase the lifeless shuffling of the ration hall to the edges of his mind, filling the space with the energy of someone new. They trade in their cards, one after another, and then Patton will lead them down to his room, walking slowly to give them time to duck and weave through the shifting sands of people in the hallway.

Once they reach their destination, they’ll sit down around the table, and Patton’s mother will begin to speak.

She has a way with inspiration. One second, there will be only a spark of willingness, a flickering little fire suppressed by fear, by routine, but she never fails to fan it into a roaring flame of determination. “June seventh,” she’ll say at the end, “is when we’re going to do it. Here’s the plan.”

xxxxxx

On the day before everything is going to change, Patton does not go to sleep, even though at ten, when the lights go off, they both get into bed, pretending to settle down for the night. Seconds creep past in the still silence as the weight of everything that’s about to happen hangs in the air, creeping into the cracks into the walls, settling on the counters and tables, seeping into Patton’s skin to ignite a a buzz of restless energy. It’s a constant hum, a quiet, subtle purr, a tense whisper; it’s something dormant waiting, waiting, waiting to be released. 

As he lays there, his body strung with suppressed movement, he traces the familiar lines of the pipes that run along the ceiling, his gaze following the path of the water they carry. It’d been a sort of game when he was younger. He’d lay in bed, waiting for sleep to wander by, and imagine the pipes as the hallways, the water in them as the people that walked them. Some days they would become roads like the ones in his stories, open and free, and cities would rise up at the junctions. It was perfect. Even now, he sometimes returns to this land, wondering what it was like and wishing he’d been there to see it.

He cannot have the earth as it once was. That’s a fact he’s had to make peace with. This gray little sanctuary, hidden away miles beneath the dead landscape, is all that’s left, and all they can do is hope to make it a little less cold.

After a lifetime of waiting, his mother gets out of bed, neatly folding up her blanket at the foot of it, and steps over to her little boy, hidden away under purple plaid fleece, a treasure scavenged from the bin at work; Patton feels small, scared under her gaze. Doubt weaves all through his mind, unearthing heavy guilt and shame, but he says nothing as she takes his hand in hers and whispers, “You know you can go to sleep, baby.”

He tries to sift through all his fear to find that smile he wears so proudly, but doesn’t quite manage it, instead calling forth a desperate parody that doesn’t reach his eyes. In the dark, she shouldn’t be able to tell. His words will be enough. “I have to be here to celebrate when you get back, mom.” It’s cheerful, normal.

Straightening up, she lets go of his hand, stepping away from the bed and towards the hallway. The smile she gives him is hopeful and real. “It’s going to be wonderful,” she promises, and with that, disappears around the corner, her quiet footsteps fading into the darkness.

He waits.

How long has it been? Will they all have gathered in the ration hall by now? The buzzing under his skin gets worse, steadily creeping up on him until it’s an electric, sizzling thing, a wild creature tearing at the walls of its cage. Wrapping himself up in his blanket, Patton drives himself crazy with doubt, with the image of his mother walking down the hall, armored with confidence, and then abruptly, in a moment of restlessness, of guilt, of hope, of mind-numbing fear, of courage, of inspiration, he’s struck with the absolute certainty that he should be out there with them. Maybe there’s a ball of dread stuck in his throat, and maybe it feels like a premonition of bad things to come, but he can’t let everyone else do this for him.

He gets out of bed.

The ground is rough and harsh against his knees as he searches around under the bed for his shoes, but he pays it no mind, moving fast enough to bang his hand against the sparse metal bedframe once he’s found them. Not bothering with the laces, he jams them onto his feet.

With his heart beating double time in his chest, Patton steps up and out into the hallway, where a long line of dim lights stretch out in front of him, tracing the bottom corner of the space and running forward until it disappears into the darkness. They’re a mundane thing, made to help navigate the hall in the dark, but for the first time in years, Patton is deeply, viscerally glad they’re there. Gazing into the distance of the endless hallway, he clutches the strap of his bag, takes a deep breath, and runs.

During the day, this passage is always filled with a swath of people, but now, when the lights have gone out and most people are soundly asleep, the sound of his feet pounding against the ground is free to ring out, filling the space with a hollow echo that follows him as he runs. It’s the first time he’s run in forever. His shoelaces whip around his ankles, his bag smacks against his hip and upper leg, sweat prompts his glasses to start slipping down his nose, and his breath comes short and heavy, but still he runs, alone in the empty hallway, a blur of life and movement among the ever-constant gray of the world around him. 

It’s usually a fifteen-minute journey to the ration hall, but he makes it in six. This room is even eerier all dark and empty, the walls so far away, the lines of people that usually twist around the columns absent. As he stands there, panting, he finds only an empty room; they’ve already started.

And so, steeling himself, he takes off once again.

After meeting up in the ration hall, the plan is to move down to Management, a huge, cavernous space at the northeastern corner of Haven. The first room built, it’s been home to the people that keep things running since there was enough space carved out for the first generation to move their machinery down into the earth and get to work digging out the rest of the city.

Turning a corner, he catches sight of the end of the hall, a square of light in the distance. Its clear, white beams creep along the dark hallway, pushing away some of the blackness near the exit in persistent defiance, and it grows as Patton runs, his goal ever-so steadily creeping closer. It feels like victory, like release, like all the freedom of being able to run like this backed by the promise of a first hurdle passed, and underneath it all, dread hangs heavy in his chest, fostering an urgency that pushes him forward as he crosses the barrier and the steady beat of his footsteps becomes the harsh, rattling sound of impact on metal.

Management is the biggest space Patton has ever known, and the feeling of the constant weight of the small rooms he spends most of his time in starts to dissipate whenever he has the chance to step into it. He’s never seen it from the second level, though. Platforms like the one he’s standing on wrap around the room, forming three neat lines of dark metal that trace a path along each towering wall, their supports burrowed deep into the rock. Floodlights peer out from the stone, their white beams illuminating everything in harsh, sharp relief. Panting, Patton leans on the railing. 

There, in the center, is a cluster of houses, red-brown brick structures that rise up from the ground the same way tables and chairs do, only so much bigger. From where Patton is, thirty feet from the ground, he can see the tops of them, but the sheer amount of space that wraps around them, enough that they’re not simply part of the room but something in it, that’s the real wonder. Far below him, a crowd of people has gathered in front of the doors. Patton clutches the railing tighter, steeling himself.

Prying himself out of the safety of his bed had been hard enough, but now, with everything right there out in front of him, it takes monumental effort to let go of his death grip on the railing, step away, and start walking towards the stairs. 

A man is climbing up the ladder on the side of one of the houses.

Patton’s foot falls heavy on the first step, a finality.

There’s a group of people working at the door hinges.

Second step. The hollow sound of the metal rings in Patton’s ears.

Shouting echoes around stone and metal.

Three, four.

More people have found the ladder, now.

The fifth step rattles a bit.

One woman wields a broom handle.

Six, seven.

The world flows around Patton as he descends, slow, dread ratcheting up with each step closer to the ground. Whatever is squeezing his chest gets tighter, tighter, consuming all of his thoughts until there is nothing but the pounding of his heart and the steps beneath his feet and the sound of shouting like static in his ears, an empty thing that echoes around his brain just as it echoes around the room. 

He’s four steps from the ground, now. Three. In a hallway across the room, a group of men in management uniforms are stalking into the space, each of them holding something across their chests.

Two steps to the ground.

There’s a short, sharp sound, then, one that sends Patton snapping back into reality like a rubber band, one that instantly pierces and shatters the passive underwater world he’s in and leaves behind one of action. It’s the loudest sound he’s ever heard, and it kicks every inch of his body into high alert.

The man on the ladder freezes for a fraction of a second, frozen in time, and then falls, falls, falls falls falls and he hasn’t even hit the ground yet when that sound punches through the air again and a woman on the edge of the crowd collapses. The people near her turn to look, and Patton watches red seep into the fabric of her shirt. No sooner have people knelt down by her then it happens again, many times in quick succession and it’s so loud and Patton looks up to see a man in a uniform right above him, standing right where he had just a few moments ago, and as fear strikes his body like electricity the crowd descends into panic. Without thinking, Patton sets his eyes on the closest place to hide and runs.

Still and rusty from disuse, the elevators that once carried the first Haven citizens sit burrowed into the wall, dormant. As Patton bolts across the empty space between his stairs and the shelter, people scream in panic, in anguish, in fear, and he races across the space with his eyes glued to his shoes and the smooth ground, only risking tiny, second-long glances at the world around him. His feet hit hard against the floor. He tosses his head to glimpse what’s behind him and the world slows down.

There, running after him, is a woman in a management uniform, running like hell, her feet pushing off the ground with a determined efficiency that’s far from Patton’s wild strides. They make eye contact.

Her hair, pulled up into a sensible ponytail, is swaying wildly behind her, keeping time with her strides. Terror strikes Patton’s heart. He urges his feet to go faster.

He doesn’t dare to look back.

The elevator is right ahead of him, a simple cage of metal grating. Going so fast he’s nearly stumbling, Patton focuses on it and lets the terror shooting up and down his body take him to the finish line, letting everything but himself and the ground and the elevator and the woman chasing him fall away into the background. As he crosses the threshold and the solid sound of his footsteps on the ground once again changes to the hollow clatter of metal, Patton doesn’t think, only whips around, sees her there, and slams his hand on a button on the wall. A fourth wall sweeps in, rattling as it moves into place, separating him from the rest of the world, and for a moment he just stands there, panting, finally able to take a moment now that he’s safe.

The woman on the other side doesn’t leave. He can see her there, in fragments behind the criss-crossing metal of the door, as she looks back at him, as unruffled as if she hasn’t just chased him there. “You’ll have to leave eventually,” she says, shouting over the constant noise, but he can’t bring himself to pay attention to her, too focused on what’s happening in the distance; more people are falling every second, forming a mass of bodies as still and dull as Haven, a sharp contrast to even the man who Patton always sees at the ration counter. Even so, the room is far from lifeless, filled with a cacophony of screams and loud noises. At the edge of the cluster of people, there’s a teenager much like Patton himself leaking blood out onto the ground around him, the red so bright and vibrant, so stark against the gray that settles over everything like a fog. His throat tight with horror, Patton chokes. 

“I won’t hurt you if you come out of there, kid,” the woman says, and then promises, “but if you don’t, we’ll send someone down to pry open the gate and make sure you join them out there. Haven’s overpopulated anyway.”

He tries to breathe, but it’s like there’s something stuck in his throat. People are dying. He just watched people die. Stuck in the moment, stuck in the dread that’d pushed him out of bed and the fear that’d propelled him across the room, Patton stumbles backwards until he hits the opposite wall with a clang. His legs have given up on working, it seems, and he still can’t breathe. Slowly, with the trembling, defeated movements of someone who can’t cope, he slides down the wall, his breath shaky, his eyesight blurry as tears begin to slide down his cheeks. 

They’re all going to die. His mother is going to die, if she’s not dead already. They’re all going to die, and then they’ll just be… gone. 

With one final look at the woman in front of him and the carnage behind her, the blood on the stone floor, the people in uniforms that stalk towards the dwindling crowd, Patton makes a decision somewhere in the back of his mind. With slow, shaky movements, he reaches up and presses one of the buttons on the controls for the elevator.

With a groan, the ancient machinery grinds to life, and Patton sits there, watching it all fall away as he ascends.

xxxxxx

The elevator is noisy. From where he sits, curled up against the wall like he’s trying to disappear into it, Patton can feel every single rumble of the motor, every single time the metal cage jostles. 

Sitting there, shaking almost as much as the elevator itself, he lets tears pool in his eyes and run down his cheeks until they hit his hand, firmly locked over his mouth in shock, in horror. With his glasses hanging in his other hand, limp where it’s draped over his knees, everything is a blur of undefined shape and color, the orange-painted grating of the wall opposite him blending into the grey of the endless shaft he’s suspended in, alone, terrified, trembling like the air around him is freezing, not merely cool from being underground, untouched by the sun.

The ride is endless. Time loses meaning, the moments passing in a blurry amalgamation of metal clanking against metal, walls rolling past him, salty tears falling onto his hand. They’re dead, he thinks, just like that. They’re dead. They killed people, and god, who even thinks of that? Who looks at another human being and considers ending their life? How could that even occur to someone?

Thoughts run through his head like they’re on repeat and like they’re never passing at all. The elevator rattles. Something goes ka-chunk, like it’s clicking into place. 

The elevator stops. He looks up. Noise signals the door sliding back to the side.

There is only Patton and the darkness.

Slowly, slowly, something lifts, casting a little stripe of light that creeps across the floor, spreading, stretching. It crawls over his shoes, climbs up his legs, and right there in front of Patton, there’s a growing rectangle of bright, bright, bright light, light that washes out everything on the other side, light that makes him want to close his eyes to shield them.

Something clicks, and it stops. He squints up into the light.

Slowly uncurling and sliding his glasses back onto this face, Patton looks out into his new world for the first time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: mass shooting. To avoid it, skip from, "He's four steps from the ground, now," to, "with a groan, the ancient machinery grinds to life, and Patton sits there, watching it all fall away as he ascends."


	4. Roman

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warnings for this one: Remus is here, so there are mentions of gore, sort of terminal illness, Roman mentions Remus messing with the body of an animal that got killed by a dog at one point

Something’s not quite right.

The problem is that he just can’t figure out what isn’t right. After spending an hour hiding in the stables squinting at Maximus, you’d think the drawing would be turning out well, and it was! It really was, right up until Roman set it down in his lap, thinking it finished. With a frustrated growl, he kicks at the ground, his boot scuffing against hard-packed dirt as he stands up from the bale of hay he’s sitting on, brushing pieces off his pants. He can’t be going around looking all disheveled.

“Roman!” someone shouts, throwing open the stable doors wildly and letting the early morning light into the dim space, where it illuminates all the dust that’s been spurred into a wild dance by the sudden opening of the door. Speaking of disheveled. “Four more people died in town yesterday,” Remus chirps, trotting over to Roman, who simply stands there, long since having gotten used to the defeated feeling that comes each time another death is announced.

When he was little, he dreamed of saving the town, galavanting around the field as he pretended to defend it from bandits, wild animals, or even a mighty dragon that would swoop in to steal their livestock and torch their fields. The fantasies always ended with a celebration. Someone would hoist his little frame up onto their shoulders and proclaim, “Let’s give it up for Roman!” prompting the entire town to go wild with applause, throwing him flowers as he reveled in the praise, a mighty hero.

It’s ironic, really. His whole life, Roman’s been looking for a enemy to defeat that will prove he’s more than the town joke, the annoyance, the dreamer with no value for simple, hard work, but now that there finally is one, it’s a beast he can never hope to defeat. It sweeps through the town, cursing victim after victim, an invisible predator that creeps through the population on poisonous claws, leaving coughing and wheezing in its wake, and there’s nothing Roman can do.

“Oooh, what’s this?” Remus says, standing on tiptoe to peek over Roman’s shoulder, his hands coming up to yank his brother towards him so he can get a better look at the drawing of Maximus, which Roman has begun seriously contemplating ripping to shreds in frustration. Wiggling his way out of Remus’s grip, he tucks his sketchbook back into his bag and walks out of the dusty stable into the clear morning air, leaving Remus behind to annoy the horses. 

The heat of the day hasn’t quite set in yet, the sun still low in the eastern sky. It’s just beginning to crest over the roofs of the houses, sitting just behind them to cast a flare of light that he has to squint against as he walks across to the house, his shoes scuffing on the ground with a sound like dry corn husks. Roman’s shadow gets thrown long across the dusty ground and over the scraggly shrubbery as he trudges back to the busier parts of his home, where there’s sure to be a job for him to do.

The main house is a long, low thing that seems to almost blend into the ground. Its rough adobe walls, repaired many times over, are cracked but solid, worn but sturdy, constantly being eroded and built back up in an endless cycle driven by the unrelenting stubbornness of both the elements and Roman’s family. Each of the little potted plants that bask in the sun on the windowsills have found their place in Roman’s sketchbook at least once. He gives them a little nod of acknowledgement.

Just as he steps inside, his father leaves the kitchen and purposefully strides through the front room. “Oh, Roman,” he pipes up, taking a large basket from the nest of them by the door, “I was just looking for you. There’s a lot of laundry to be folded out there, and we all know your brother will just get it all dirty again somehow, so get to work.” Sighing, Roman takes the basket.

“Where’s mom?” he asks, curious.

Already back in the kitchen, his father shouts, “She’s taking your brother into town to buy flour!”

“Into town?” 

“Yes,” his father answers, “that’s what I just said.” Shocked, Roman stands there, his grip around the handle of the basket tightening. Any other time, a trip into town wouldn’t even be notable, but now, with a contagious disease ravaging the population, it could be a death sentence for the whole family. All it takes is for one person to get infected, and then suddenly the sickness has moved into your home, nesting down and making itself comfortable in anyone unfortunate enough to come into contact with it. As he steps back out into the sunlight, basket in tow, he fidgets with his necklace. A plague in town, that he can deal with, but in his own home? An evil no one can fight? That’s another matter.

The large basket is light, but clumsy to carry, a big, boxy thing that bangs against Roman’s shins as he walks out to the clotheslines, where yesterday’s laundry drifts in the breeze. With a sigh, he sets the basket down and gets to work.

xxxxxx

By the time Remus gets back, the sun hangs above Roman’s head, hot on his back as he kneels in the garden picking out weeds. Dirt covers his hands and dust from the dry ground sticks to his sweaty knees, covering his bronze skin with caked-on spots of light tan. Plucking the last weed from this bed, he straightens up to stretch, arching his sore back as he reaches his arms out to either side, turning his face up to the yellow sun with a little groan as his cramped muscles relish in their newfound freedom. 

Four beds down, lots more to go.

From behind him, Roman hears a shout. “Roman!” Remus yells, running from the stables. The loose sleeves of his shirt billow out around his arms as he runs, making him look like a flowing, gentle, graceful thing, but his conniving grin — and messy hair — betray his true nature as he comes to a stop next to Roman and his basket full of uprooted weeds, sending a billowing cloud of dust rising up around them. “I have our next story idea,” he says, excitement in his eyes as he drops down to his knees and seizes Roman by the shoulders, looking into his eyes with frenzied intensity. “It’s a murder mystery. It takes place in a town in a forest with lots of creepy shadows and places to hide — for the ambiance, you know? And then one night their mill guy hears something, and of course he gets up to go check on things, but when he gets there everything is still and there’s blood smeared all over the millstones — I’m not sure if someone would actually get ground up if they got pushed in there, but who cares — so then he goes to get somebody. Everybody suspects the mill guy, so he has to find out who really did it and prove himself innocent.” By this time, he’s abandoned his grip on Roman to gesture as he talks. “You can decide who the murderer is. Oh, and who gets killed. I was going to make it a kid, but you’d freak out.” Standing up, the basket in hand, Roman walks to the next garden bed, Remus at his heels.

As he kneels down once again, Roman thinks. It’s one of Remus’ less gory ideas, surprisingly, and setting it in a wooded area would add a lot to the creepiness of it all, as well as provide more opportunities for places to hide. Of course, it’s debatable whether a place like that even exists, because they don’t hold onto every last scrap of wood for nothing, but that’s what fiction is for, isn’t it? It’s still a little too… real, for Roman’s taste, but that might make it easier for the people in town to accept. He narrows his eyes. “Help me weed the rest of the garden,” he says, “and we’ll do it.”

“Great! Unless the evil spirits in town get to us first, we’re doing it!” Remus shouts, slapping Roman on the back in a way that’s much too forceful to be anything but intentional. Well then. As Remus kneels down besides him, Roman reaches down to pick up a weed with one hand while scooping up a handful of dust in the other until, in one smooth motion, he twists around like a snake and throws the handful of dust into Remus’ face, immediately bolting to the other side of the bed to distance himself from the inevitable retaliation. 

Remus stays crouched there for a moment, rubbing the dirt from his eyes as Roman watches, poised to bolt away or attack once again at a moment’s notice. When he looks up, it’s with a smile pulled tight across his face and wide eyes, an eerie mockery of a grin that he’s been using on Roman — and anyone else unfortunate to meet him — since they were kids. He tilts his head to the side just a little. Roman is frozen.

Never once breaking eye contact, Remus sits there, picks up his own handful of dirt, and says, “You better run.”

Just like that, Roman is off, his feet flicking dust into the air as they push off the ground, one after the other, a steady beat to back their wild fight. As he runs, he scoops another handful of dust off the ground. Remus isn’t far behind, trampling herbs and leaving shoe prints as he cuts straight through the garden bed, the sleeves of his loose green shirt falling down around his hands as he gives chase, a familiar manic glint in his eye as he cackles. Roman speeds up.

In a split second decision, Roman turns, skidding. By the time Remus is able to slow his momentum and change direction, Roman has ducked under the clothesline, leaving Remus to scramble in the dust, one hand on the ground to keep himself from falling, in order to turn. He’s gained the advantage.

Roman doesn’t relish his victory, though, already darting out from between the drying clothes, which hang in the hot air like the colorful flags that hang all over town on festival days. He sprints off back the way they came. Remus, his hair flopping around wildly as he runs, pushes himself to go faster, and soon, his feet are clipping at the heels of Roman’s shoes, threatening to knock them off entirely. Roman’s only hope is to turn another corner. Wiping sweat from his face, he sets his eyes on the house.

Suddenly, he’s jerked to a stop, his arm giving a painful twinge as it yanks the rest of his body back. Snatched right out of his speed, Roman feels a sweaty hand grip his wrist with feverish intensity, and in one drawn out fraction of a second, he’s pulled backwards, his feet going out from under him as he begins to fall, releasing his handful of dust as he scrambles to catch himself. It’s no use; he lands hard on the ground.

Grinning, Remus drops to his knees, holding Roman down by his shoulders, and releases his handful of dust right above Roman’s face.

Oh, god, it’s horrible. Roman’s always hated the dust; it gets in your hair, seeps into your clothes, and covers you like a second skin, clinging to your sweaty skin like a toddler to their mother, persistent and obnoxious. Unlike Remus, who’s happy to exist in a constant state of filth, Roman prefers to be clean, thank you very much, and so the omnipresent dust has become his enemy over the years. As he blinks frantically, he shoves his brother off of him.

Tumbling onto the ground, Remus laughs. It’s a grating sound like dry sticks cracking and breaking, like the scrappy plants that dot the ground being crushed underneath a horse’s hooves. It sounds like the aftermath of mischief, like carelessness, like landing hard after you vault over the low wall of the neighbor’s sheep pen but not caring that it’ll bruise, high off the blind thrill of causing trouble just for the hell of it. It sounds like a handful of dust thrown in your face, Roman thinks as he sits up, propping himself up with his arms and tossing his head back to get his hair back out of his face. “I hope you’re happy,” he says over the last bits of Remus’ hysterics, “because we still need to weed the garden.”

“That’s dumb,” Remus wheezes, despite the fact that he knows how important weeding the garden is.

“You’re dumb!” With that, he stands up, twisting around in a hopeless attempt to brush all the dust off of himself as Remus snickers in the background, still sprawled out on the ground like a wild tangle of rope dug up from some dusty shelf in the stable. Roman kicks more dust over him for good measure. “You’re dumb, and I’m going to leave you here,” he proclaims, stomping his foot like a petulant child, “laying in the sun.” 

Remus snorts. “Left to die by my very own brother! Aren’t you supposed to be the noble one?”

Roman walks away.

xxxxxx

Tuesday morning starts in darkness. In the twins’ room, the windows, neatly aligned in an array of little squares, face west, and so each morning they wake up to one of their parents calling rather than the early morning sun streaming into the room. Roman yawns as he sluggishly climbs down from the top bunk.

They’d swept just yesterday, so the floor is mostly free of dust, the hard-packed ground cool against his bare feet as he pads across the small room to the shelves on the other side. Remus is still sound asleep, sprawled across his mattress with one hand hanging off the bed, a foot propped up against his abandoned pillow, and his blanket kicked off onto the ground in a little puddle of fabric as he snores away, oblivious to the rest of the world. Birds chirp outside, their chattering spilling through the windows.

Though Remus’ clothes are always scattered across his side of the shelf in wrinkled piles, a marsh of dirty and clean fabric alike, Roman takes care to fold his into neat little rectangles, each colorful shirt or pair of pants a little masterpiece. He likes them. Growing up in a family that dyes fabric for a living, Roman’s spent his life learning how to harvest flowers, roots, and tree bark, flitting about the gardens and the little fields of brush outside of town like a little fairy that lives and breathes nature, at home in the simple world outside of town. It’s more practical to get them from the garden, but searching around makes it feel like he’s earned it. Roman’s projects are often the most ambitious. He hangs shirts above the dye baths to make stripes and covers the necklines in delicate little painted flowers that speckle the garment like stars across the sky, and his favorites he saves for himself, folding them up on his shelf to wear on days when how much he stands out is a badge of pride.

Smoothing over the coarse fabric with his hands, he eventually chooses a gentle pink shirt with the bottom trimmed in pale yellow. Plain brown pants, the darkest ones he owns, make the colors stand out, and after putting on his necklace with its intricate little wooden beads, he’s ready to start the day.

By the time Remus makes it out of their room, Roman’s already eaten breakfast, and his brother has to make do with eating his on the way over to the stables for their earliest morning chores. They walk across from the house in silence, for once. Usually, Remus’ll be shouting by now, or using his endless energy to run circles around Roman, teasing him, but today he just coughs once in awhile. It’s peaceful, the quiet. There’s a breeze today that ruffles Roman’s hair, brushes against his skin gently, yet wild and free, exotic and untamable in a way that makes him feel alive despite the quiet that the scuff of their shoes keeps time to. If art and storytelling were productive, Roman thinks, he’d love the mornings. They’re always filled with so much inspiration.

But chores are much more important. 

The stable door creaks when Roman pushes it open, sailing back in a slow arc until it alights gently on the wall. Over the years of being opened and closed, opened and closed, it’s traced that curve on the floor, a wide, sweeping section of packed earth just slightly lower than the rest of the stable floor. Inside, Maximus huffs, turning his big head to them in expectation of food. The twins start their respective jobs in silence. While Remus heads off in search of a shovel and rake, which he always manages to misplace, Roman wanders over to the back of the building, where Princess stands silently, her smooth brown coat shining in the light from the window, which is quiet and subdued in that early-morning kind of way, as if it hasn’t quite woken up either.

“Hey there, m’lady,” Roman murmurs, a fond smile like the familiar feel of charcoal in his hands finding its way onto his face. Princess tosses her head. Chuckling, Roman takes a rope down from a hook on the wall, patting her soft nose as he threads it through the loop on her harness with movements so familiar they’re mindless, now, just like walking or drifting off to sleep.

She follows him back out the stable doors and over to the outside of the building, where there’s a bucketful of food waiting for her. Her smooth brown coat gleams in the sunlight and the wind rustles her dark mane as she slowly bends her head down to eat, and Roman takes the time to watch for a minute; she’s such a big animal, but still so gentle. As he walks back in to get Maximus, he trails his hands along the wall, his fingers dragging along the rough adobe and all the cracks. 

Remus’ idea from earlier that week needs a lot of fleshing out, but after a few days of talking over it as they work, they’ve managed to get a pretty good idea of how it might go. Of course, their visions for it are, well… different, but it’s coming along. Roman can already see them standing behind a campfire with a crowd of little children clustered around them, enthusiastic but unable to appreciate it in the same way someone older would. Sure, he loves making them smile and shriek with delight, loves the way they lean forward in their seats, listening with the quiet intensity of a hunting dog, but it’s not the same, not when he could be hearing, “I didn’t anticipate the twist at the end,” or, “you’re a wonderful storyteller, Roman,” or, “that last part was heartbreaking.” Most of all, though, when he sits around and imagines his stories being received well, he wishes for someone to say, “Until now, I never realized how wonderful art can be.”

If only. He’s reaching for it, working as hard as he can, but fantasies are childish, Roman, they’re a waste of time, Roman, get to work, Roman, crush your dreams, Roman. Standing there outside of the stable door in the early morning, he lets anger flood in to crush the despair that tugs at his chest, at his eyes, that threatens to take over and leave him standing there hopelessly, crying.

Suddenly, there’s a clatter from behind him. Turning around to make fun of Remus for knocking yet another thing down, Roman gives the feelings a forceful shove, leaving them on the ground outside as he steps through the door.

True to form, his brother has managed to knock over not only a stack of baskets and buckets, but a few clay pots, too, the pieces of which are now scattered on the ground in a little cluster. Instantly, Roman tenses. Mom is going to blame one of them for this, and it’s sure as hell not going to be him, no matter how hard Remus tries to tell her it’s his fault. Shifting his weight in preparation to run, Roman stares at his brother, meeting his eyes and daring him to make the first move.

Remus takes a step forward, and Roman bolts away, tearing out the open half of the stable doors and out into the sunlight, where he risks a glance behind him only to find Remus isn’t there. There is only empty, dusty ground. He never left. Coming to a stop, Roman turns, puzzled, and sets his eyes back on the building.

As he gets closer, Roman hears coughing. The second door creaks as he pushes it open, the battered wood easily swinging back into place and widening the ray of light that spills across the floor until he can see his brother at the back of the building, bent over in a coughing fit in the middle of the pile of shattered clay and scattered tools. It’s a harsh, hollow sound, hoarse and raw in the same way that cold wind is harsh against your skin and clothes. Roman has to bat away the conclusion his brain jumps to, but the thought still lingers at the edge of his mind, pushing, prying, insistent even in its half formed state. He ignores it. If he puts words to it, then it’ll be real, it’ll be unavoidable, but in the limbo between the beginning of a thought and the moment it becomes concrete, he is safe.

Even so, when he speaks, his voice is tentative, careful, like he’s stepping out onto a tree branch that might not be able to support his weight. “Remus?” His coughing has morphed into a hacking sound that shoves its way into Roman’s head, tearing its way through his brain and bringing barley-contained worry and fear behind it. Outside, Princess whinnies.

His brother is clutching at his chest with one hand, now, the other still up by his mouth as he nearly shakes with the force of the fit, and Roman is frozen there in the light that flows in from the doors, his every muscle tensed like he’s ready to bolt at a moment’s notice, but he doesn’t even notice the strain as he watches Remus slowly, slowly get control back over himself. He straightens up and draws his hand away from his mouth like moving too fast will startle the coughing into starting back up again. As he looks down at the palm of his hand, still uncurling, Roman sees the exact moment his brother’s eyes widen.

The look that twists its way onto his face is something that he’ll never be able to describe quite right, not in a million years of practice. It starts slow, with a slight furrowing of his eyebrows, and then sinks into something almost like wonder struck through with a slow sort of shock that’s laced with a disbelieving sort of amusement, the look that you get when you see some random person out in town do something particularly strange and confounding. Out of it all, Remus wheezes, an airy sort of half-laugh, and then everything goes to hell.

Remus’ cackle of a laugh has been familiar to him since they were kids. It sounds like mischief and carelessness, unabashed gleeful satisfaction. This, though, this is different. This laugh is an unhinged thing, wild and dangerous and out of control, the high winds of a spring storm that sweeps up out of nowhere and batters the world into a chaotic collection of objects; it’s _ scary, _ scary like turning a corner to find your brother pulling bones out of the carcass of some poor small animal that’d gotten too close to someone’s dog. This laugh is that same manic energy that makes Roman feel like he should back away, back away slowly and then run for his life once he’s far enough away to make it.

He doesn’t back away; he steps forward. Each of his footfalls are deafening even as they’re completely lost in Remus’ laughter. After what feels like ages, Roman is finally closer, finally close enough to see what’s made his brother lose it like this.

He has a feeling he already knows.

The angle changes as he steps just behind Remus, his mind, trained from hours upon hours of fruitless practice drawing, noting how the lines of the room shift as he moves. Pushing up onto his toes, he can finally get a good look.

There is blood on Remus’ hand.

xxxxxx

Staying out of town is easy. Staying out of the house is harder.

Mom and dad have retreated indoors to fret over Remus, bringing him water and rubbing his back during particularly bad coughing fits, which leaves Roman free to avoid him under the guise of doing the chores his parents no longer have time for. He catches glimpses of them through the windows as he walks by, awkwardly staggering back to the garden with a bucket of water. Heavy things are a lot easier to carry when you can’t spill them. 

A few days ago, home had been a place of safety. In town, where the evil spirits have dozens of people to jump across to, lacing the whole community with sickness, there is danger, but as long as nobody carries one at home, he’s safe. Now that one has bound to his brother, though, all he can hope to do is stay as far away from him as possible, which leaves him here, lugging buckets of water back and forth to the garden under the late afternoon sun. The handle of the bucket is rough and raw against his hands. Finally reaching his destination, Roman hefts the bucket up and pours it over a little section of a garden bed, watching as the dirt turns from a brittle light brown to a dark, saturated color.

It’s as if he’s been out here forever. If he tries, Roman can imagine he’s the only one around for lengths, a solitary figure pacing the dry ground like a listless husk, silhouetted by the sun as it seeps down through layers of sky, pulling soft gold and vibrant orange and tart pink across the heavens as it goes, ever steady, unwavering. Soon it’ll be too dark to work. He’ll no longer have an excuse to stay outside.

As if on cue, his mother appears in the doorway of the house. “Roman,” she calls, “it’s time to come inside!” Tossing the bucket carelessly to the ground, where it lands with a hollow sound, he begins to drag his feet towards the house. His mom steps away as he crosses the doorway, making room for him to step inside, and busies herself with organizing a stack of baskets as Roman kneels to unlace his shoes, fumbling with the knots he’d tied this morning, when everything was fine. “Your brother’s asking for you,” she tells him. “Your father and I are going to visit town to let people know.” Silent, Roman nods and watches them leave, anxiety buzzing at the edges of his mind as he ventures deeper into the house.

Remus looks just like he always has. His shirt (green, his favorite color) is wrinkled beyond what should be reasonably possible, and his eyes are lined with messy, smudged kohl. That dumb piece of white string is even still braided into his hair. Lingering just outside the doorway, Roman crosses his arms, shifting his weight onto one foot, and then, after a moment, gathers the strength to snap, “What do you want?” all flat and irritated like he can’t possibly stand another second in his brother’s presence, even if he’s not in the room. Immediately, Remus perks up, twisting to look at him.

“Roman!” he exclaims. He doesn’t look sick. Not yet. It’s just a matter of time until his breaths sound like wheezing and his ribs stand out and he can’t make it though more than a sentence or two without stopping to cough; Roman knows what’s coming. It’s been happening in town for weeks.

It feels almost wrong, to think of his brother like that, all sickly and weak, confined to his bed as the world goes on around him. Remus has always been the kid that falls out of a tree and brushes himself off like nothing ever happened, the kid that shows mom his bloody, scraped arm with delight and enthusiasm, the kid that tramples his way through life without stopping for anything, the kid with impenetrable armor. You can’t hurt him; he always bounces back. The idea that something can reduce him to a bedridden half-corpse is laughable, and yet here he is, headed towards his death. Lost in thought, Roman wanders just past the doorway, setting him firmly, undeniably, in the room with Remus and the spirit that’s bound to him. He holds his breath.

“They’ve got me locked up in here like a housecat, Roman! It’s not like my lungs are going to fall out or something as soon as I stand up and start walking around. I’m perfectly fine right now! Hey, are you listening?” Remus is saying, his voice clambering over the syllables just like usual. Roman, still trying to breathe shallowly, crosses his arms. 

“What do you expect me to do about it, you lazy fiend?” Insults are easy, safe. It’s a defense mechanism Roman doesn’t even consciously know he has, but one he makes full use of now, just like he does when Remus is at his worst, when he’s acting, well, scary. But he doesn’t rise to the bait. He doesn’t even keep complaining.

When he speaks up again, it’s not a retort, but instead, “Can I have your shirt?”

_ “What?” _ Roman recoils, an affronted look on his face. The air in the room still feels thick, heavy, weighted with his knowledge of Remus’ sickness, and so he curses himself for his dramatic gasp the moment after it happens, but there isn’t much time to dwell on anything as Remus chatters right on as if he hadn’t managed to give Roman topic whiplash despite the fact that after living with him all his life, Roman should really be used to it by now.

“I like that yellow one with the dumb brown swirl,” he says, bracing his feet on the bottom of Roman’s bed. “It looks like—“

“Shut _ up, _ Remus!” Roman’s shout cracks like lightning through the room, stopping the world in its tracks. The dust motes freeze in the air, the sun hangs motionless in the sky, the tired little potted plant in the corner stops to listen, and most miraculously, Remus freezes in his tracks, dead silent. For a moment, Roman almost feels pride for getting him to stop talking for once. “Why do you even want me here, anyway?”

Remus doesn’t respond.

Roman can feel the sickness pounding at his skin. The restless spirit stalks around him, reaching out in hopes of binding to yet another person. Across the room, Remus turns his head to look at the rich light that filters its way through the window and mumbles an answer, grabbing a handful of the fabric of his shirt. “What?” Roman snaps out, demanding.

When Remus repeats himself, it’s the opposite of quiet. No, the words are loud, barbed things screeched out like the harsh feeling of rope against your skin, like hitting the ground hard and getting all the air knocked out of you for a moment; Remus tightens his grip on his shirt, his eyes widening, and with his teeth bared, shouts, “Maybe I wanna spend time with my brother before I die!”

Roman freezes. Remus’ eyes, alight with a fire of anger shrouding poorly concealed disappointment, flick up to meet Roman’s, and for a moment he sees himself in his place, sitting there waiting for death to decide what to do with him, wasting away as the life drains from his body with every new day. If his brother were a drawing, Roman could erase the mustache, neaten up the hair and then it would be him. It still could be him, if he stays here and gives the sickness the opportunity to bind to him. Roman takes a step back. “You,” he starts, so quiet and low that it’s almost inaudible, “you—you’re—you’re just trying to drag me down with you,” he says, and as the words are released into the air he can feel a weight gather in his chest and start sinking, sinking, as if his heart is being dragged down to the floor; in the moment, with fear restless in his mind and the sickness in the air twisting around his body, he almost, almost believes it. He convinces himself that he does. “You’re trying to kill me, too!” he throws across the room. 

From his place in the doorway, he can see the exact moment the words hit Remus, who starts, “Roman—“

But he’s too worked up now to stop. The idea has gained momentum, fear pushing it along as it goes, and Roman’s whole body is tense, ready to run. “I don’t want to die!” he says, his voice wavering at the end, and throws himself out the door.

The house is silent and still as he stomps through it, the hanging baskets and shelves strewn with supplies the only witness to the growl he lets out as he throws himself out the front door and into the light of the setting sun, which casts long shadows across the ground. There are the garden beds, just as he’d left them; there is the bucket he’d thrown aside. The well stands a little farther off, and past that are the stables. 

The stables.

As Roman looks, his eyes widen, his head lifts up with the pull of a realization, and his shoulders rise with a hesitant little bit hope that is swept along by the slow dawning of an idea, the kind that grows brighter as your mind takes hold of it, as you build around that first little spark and step back to look at the blazing fire you’ve created. He starts off at a brisk walk.

Maximus will be gone, taken to town, but Princess is more than likely still there. 

And spirits bound to other people can’t move on to you if you’re too far away. 

Just like that, Roman has a plan, and a smile like a blooming flower crosses his face for a second before being replaced by a look of grim determination.

He has work to do.

xxxxxx

A bolt of fabric, taken from the front room. Two clay jars. One water skin. Shirts, pants, and skirts taken off the clothesline, where they’d painted waving silhouettes against the setting sun. A cloth wrapped around enough dried food to last at least a week, a heavy coil of rope, a durable knife with a handle wrapped in colorful cord, a rolled up length of canvas, and, of course, Roman’s sketchbook and the charcoal to go with it. Those go in the bags last. Gently laying them on top of everything else and then fastening down the top flap, he takes a step back. Princess huffs.

It’s dark as he leads her out into the open air, the sky a blanket of indigo so soft and deep that you could sink into it, though there’s still a thin stripe of lighter blue on the horizon putting up a weak fight against the sea of darkness. Roman breathes in, breathes out. His hands shake a little, but he doesn’t notice.

With a nod, he reaches up to grab a solid hold on Princess’ saddle, swings himself up as smoothly and surely as falling rain, and, with one last look back at his house, sets off into the dark hollow left by the setting sun.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've realized this whole setup part of the au is just everyone's tragic backstories. Anyway, there's kind of a lot to say about this chapter, so here we go:
> 
> The most important knowledge to keep in the apocalypse would be the idea that germs exist and sickness is contagious, but the thing is, if it's the apocalypse and all you have is whatever your parents and people know and can explain, the idea that there are tiny things you can't see that cause sickness can get twisted around, which is how roman's society gets to "evil spirits." Second, the sickness that's devastating the town is modeled after tuberculosis, but I've probably managed to get things wrong - luckily this is a fictional world and I can sacrifice realism for drama if I feel like it


End file.
